


Personal Hell

by antiquechariot



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Brain Damage, But it's not all angst and sadness don't worry, F/M, It's a "realism" fic, It's more of a "these kind of things don't go away but you learn to live with them" fic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, There's light moments in the dark, This isn't a fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-25 02:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20024737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antiquechariot/pseuds/antiquechariot
Summary: "When they brought him out, this mass of tangled hair and bones that jutted past flimsy paper-thin skin, Joyce almost told them to go back. Who’s this, she wanted to say, this isn’t my Hopper."In which Joyce gets Hopper back - but not the Hopper she expected - and how she handles it.





	1. Feeling of Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Please make note of the tags, they also sort of work as trigger warnings as well. The fic and chapter titles are Kim Petras songs/lyrics because I'm slightly obsessed with her at the moment.

The way his eyes follow her across the room should be comforting, but it’s not. Mornings are for coffee and contemplation, Hopper says, but the mug goes cold and he sits, fiddling with the threads on the arm of the chair and stares at a blank TV screen until Joyce puts a hand on his shoulder and says: “How about we go for a walk?”

He looks up at her and there’s no trace of the strong, fierce, _brave_ man that lurked behind those cerulean eyes. Now there’s only fear. Fear of what came before, fear of what’s yet to come.

Hopper nods. “Sure.” They go out together, arm in arm, steps light. He doesn’t fill the space as much anymore, he’s quiet, shy, introspective in a way that scares Joyce. She used to know what he was thinking, but now? Now it’s a blur, like the smudge of charcoal on a scrap of paper.

“What’cha thinking about?” She asks him and Hopper just shrugs.

“Nothing.”

*

Kamchatka. How could she forget a name like that? Seared onto her brain every time she closes her eyes, the white noise of snow and howling winds that forced tiny, shaking hands to zip her parka up to her nose. She and Murray were _allowed_ along for the ride, Seal Team Six or whatever they liked to call themselves, piling out of a chopper onto Russian soil with no more than a half baked plan and an ounce of hope. She and Murray sat tight and he gave her these smiles of reassurance that made his face twist in unholy and unnatural ways and after a while Joyce tells him _please, Murray, please stop_.

When they brought him out, this mass of tangled hair and bones that jutted past flimsy paper-thin skin, Joyce almost told them to go back. Who’s this, she wanted to say, this isn’t my Hopper.

 _My_.

Such a selfish word. My, my, my, as if he ever belonged to her, as if the promise of a date meant they were joined at the hip forever. But, Joyce has felt something truly missing at her side for seven long months and this isn’t it. Hollow, unseeing eyes, trembling fingers, a look of complete nonrecognition.

They keep him in a stark white room under surveillance, under anaesthetic, under bright lights that show off every sunken vein, every strand of shock-grey hair. Joyce daren’t tell El they’ve found him for fear he might set her off. Or, she might set him off. A delicate house of cards that would tumble at the slightest gust of air. So, Joyce stands vigil - sometimes Murray too, with a flask of vodka that, for once, she accepts gratefully.

It might make her think of Kamchatka, but it burns as it slides down her throat and that’s a good thing.

The army doctors, or agency doctors, or TV doctors - she’s lost her head at this point, telling them plainly and firmly with a jabbing finger that she’s _staying_ and if they don’t like it they can try, _oh brother_ , they can try to forcibly remove her from this facility, but she pities the fool that’s given that particular job - tell her that something’s wrong inside of his head. The Russians put something in there, something they very quickly took back out again and there’s damage. Lots of damage. The kind of damage that no amount of scar tissue will ever put right again.

“What does that mean?” Joyce asks, feeling Murray’s breath suck back up through his nose. Part of her just wants him to go home, to leave her there to face whatever Hopper comes out of that coma, but she knows he’s just as stubborn as she is.

The seventh doctor of the day looks at her with pity and Joyce wants to tear his tear out and _scream_. “We can’t say. Not for sure. The injuries are to his Temporal Lobe. There are too many factors--”

“So he’s going to lose his memory?” Murray jumps in, folding his arms around himself protectively. Joyce turns to look at him over her shoulder with a small, sharp frown. Murray shrugs.

“Perhaps. It’s too early to say.”

“Well is or is not the Temporal Lobe the hub of memory acquisition? Are you telling us that when he wakes up, he’s going to have no memory of whatever the _fuck_ happened?”

The doctor says nothing, looking to Joyce as if she might, in her motherly way, quiet Murray like she might a bawling child. She looks to the doctor with a raised eyebrow. “Really? I’m not saving you from this one, pal.”

He trembles slightly beneath her gaze and it’s the only thing that’s given Joyce pleasure in 32 weeks, 7 hours and 53 minutes.

(She’s picked up his mannerisms in her overuse of ‘buddy’s and ‘pal’s and she has to turn away as Murray starts his tirade, feeling a dull, thudding ache in the middle of her chest.)

When they let them back into the observation room there’s other doctors - more competent doctors, Joyce hopes - pressing a needle into the line of his drip, attempting to bring him ‘round from the heavy medication they have him on. She’d expected him to struggle, but he didn’t. He lay there, eyes to the ceiling and let the fog of false sleep pull him down.

Joyce has watched every second of it, chewing her thumbnail jagged. Time moves differently in this place, a hop, skip and jump of it; Joyce wonders if it’s been hours since her last cup of coffee as her hands jitter. She stopped smoking a couple of months after they moved to Indianapolis, finding herself using it as even more of a crutch than she used to. Four packs a day would kill her faster than the stress of two kids and a houseful of memories she daren’t unbox.

El keeps everything Hopper owns; his plaids, his work shirts, his hat, his boots. She sleeps in most of it, or wears some to school. Joyce worries it’ll make her a target of the other kids, with her stunted vocabulary (though she’s been getting better every day, sitting at the kitchen table with Will as they pour over their homework, and Joyce looks at him with so much pride) and old shirts that are rolled up eight times at the sleeves. Sometimes Joyce catches her crying as she tiptoes down the corridor to bed. The door’s ajar - El doesn’t like closing it anymore, _three inches_ is wide enough - and Joyce stands in the shadows as the girl buries her face into her pillow to muffle her grief-stricken sobs.

Mostly she leaves her, though it tugs at her heartstrings like an overzealous harpist, but Joyce lets her miss him in her own way. It’s the least she can do. The box marked _Hop_ still sits at the bottom of her wardrobe, the things from his cabin that El didn’t want, the files on Terry Ives and Brenner, mementos from the Lab, that godforsaken shirt that somehow still made it through an explosion and trampled by a dozen army boots. The only thing she keeps out, pinned to the back of her wallet, tucked in the bottom of her bag, is his badge.

Joyce reaches in for it, pulls it out and looks at it in the bright light. The sheen has dulled, leaving it a mottled bronze; too many times she rubbed her thumb across it, hand deep in her purse, she thinks. A teen cashier at Walmart thought she had a gun, once, and Joyce was too embarrassed to tell him that no, there’s no gun, just a sad woman and a dead man’s badge.

“You know he’s not gonna be the same when he wakes up, right?” Murray says, but there’s no push behind his voice. He doesn’t need to be _right_ this time. He doesn’t want to be.

Joyce nods. “I know.”

“Whatever those Commie bastards were doing to him, we’ve got to be careful. _You’ve_ got to be careful.”

Joyce turns her head a fraction to look at him from the corner of her eye and frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Murray shrugs, one of those I-couldn’t-possibly-say shrugs, before saying: “The Russians are known for their torture methods. Keeping prisoners up, standing, without food, God, throwing water on them so they stay awake, but there’s rumours of something deeper. Darker. Sleeper agents. Mind control--”

She can’t help but snort at that, rolling her eyes. Certifiable, right? Her hands shake. “Mind control? Really? You think the Russians thought the best person to take control of was _Hopper_? Not a CIA agent, not a soldier, not a politician, but a Chief of Police from Hawkins?” There’s a tremble in her voice that betrays her fears and she swallows thickly. “You’re expecting the worst. It’s not going to be there.”

He sighs. “Hawkins that’s currently a cesspool for the freaks and cultists and gangbangers. Hawkins that’s the one place that gate to the hellscape they want in on can be opened? Hawkins that they built an underground base in? That Hawkins? _Yeah_.”

“Shut up, Murray.”

“I’m just saying, Joyce--”

“Shut _up_ , Murray.”

He does, making a strangled choking noise and slumping back against the wall with his arms folded. Joyce looks at the man on the bed and a small voice in the back of her head tells her: _be careful_.

Somewhere in the haze a doctor says “he’s coming ‘round” and Joyce presses in closer to the glass. His fingers twitch, hand falling from his leg to the bed and a low grumble emanates from somewhere in his chest. They haven’t shaved him yet, but the way the sheets fall away from bone and sinew makes Joyce feel queasy.

Then, he starts to cry.

She’s never seen Hopper cry before, but as deep, hurtful sob shakes him she’s pressing her palm against the window and clawing at the glass. He’s pulling at the drip, arms tugging wires and tubes as he desperately tries to get himself off of the bed and toward one of the padded walls. There’s panic in his eyes; true, child-like, unbridled fear and Joyce’s eyes go wide as he slams himself into one of the panels and bounces off onto the floor.

It’s then that the lights, the bright, white, hot lights start to flicker.

Hopper starts to scream.

And, Joyce starts to run.


	2. I Don't Want It At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now, in the midst of temper tantrums, of nightmares, of clingy hands and a desperate need for her to sit just outside the bathroom door every morning, Joyce isn't sure if this is better, or worse. Hopper's not dead, for one, and it should make her happy, but Joyce wonders if this is the kind of life he'd want to be living."
> 
> Joyce tries to fix the changes in her life.

Sometimes he wakes screaming in the night and Joyce runs into his room to press her hand to his chest and gently push him back down.

"It's okay," she says, knowing it's not, "it's okay, you're safe, it's okay." The bedside light he refuses to turn off starts to flicker and Joyce feels a sickening dread come over her. Sinking into her bones.

Hopper's eyes are wild. He's put on a little weight - she's been feeding him up ever since they let him out, and he's a natural glutton, especially in his current state, like a young boy with the energy to wolf down an entire meatloaf in one sitting - and his cheeks puff up as he scrunches up his face and starts to cry.

"I saw him, Joyce, I saw him again." Joyce is shushing him, running her fingers through his cut-short hair, desperately trying to stop the all-too-familiar flashing lights.

El stands in the doorway, hidden by the frame, eyes wide and full of fear. She's not been too close to Hopper since she first went to the hospital to see him and he didn't remember her. Didn't remember the Lab. Didn't remember Brenner, didn't remember his cabin. Just the Upside Down, just the Mindflayer. Just Joyce.

"I know. I know it's scary, I know." She holds his head to her as great, deep sobs echo from inside of him and he presses his face to her chest. "It's okay, I'm here." Joyce says, and knows he won't let her leave. Another night, cramped in Jonathan's old bed, pressed to his side and listening to him whimper in his sleep.

She moved them to Illinois to get away from this. The lights, the horrors, the nightmares. But, finding Hopper has brought them here, to their little three-bedroom house on the outskirts of Chicago, in a boring, peaceful little suburb that Joyce is just about able to afford. Owens helped her, told her that after everything she'd gone through she deserved a little compensation, and though it felt like dirty money, Joyce took it anyway. To keep her boys safe. To keep her girl safe. They moved barely three months after his death - his disappearance - and it had just started to feel like home. El and Will were stuck together like glue; you'd never see one without the other, some great understanding passing between them that never needed words. Joyce came home from her shifts expecting to find them tearing up the place, and instead finds them sitting in Will's room, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, saying nothing.

Joyce is never sure whether to be unnerved, or thankful. Son and daughter find one another someplace other than the Upside Down and she gets a bit of peace and quiet with a too-full glass of wine and an episode of Cheers. It's something to take her mind off the monotony of her days, the sudden drop in adrenaline that signals the drop off point. No more monsters, no more flickering lights, no more constant, aching fear. No more drop-ins, no more lunches, no more late nights sitting up stifling laughter so they don't wake the kids.

She'd become domestic with James Hopper without even realising it.

Now, in the midst of temper tantrums, of nightmares, of clingy hands and a desperate need for her to sit just outside the bathroom door every morning, Joyce isn't sure if this is better, or worse. Hopper's not dead, for one, and it should make her happy, but Joyce wonders if this is the kind of life he'd want to be living. He's not himself, not brash, and quick, and smart; he takes up less space, hunches his shoulders over, shuffles about the house and stands by the window, looking out with a blank expression at a street he doesn't recognise in clothes that aren't his own. Joyce takes him out as much as she can, between shifts, and sometimes there's flashes of him between the long pauses.

"What happened to the Charger?" he asks one morning over breakfast; just the two of them, having seen El and Will off to the bus fifteen minutes earlier. Joyce jerks her head back over her shoulder to look at him as he sits there with a frown, as if he's trying to physically piece scraps of memory back together inside of his own brain.

"It blew. Nearly blew with me inside it." She offers him a small smile, which he returns, then shakes his head.

"No, after. After it blew. Did anyone go back for it?"

"Uh," Joyce thinks for a moment, turning from the sink to lean back against the counter top. "I don't think so, no." She pauses. "There was a lot going on, Hop."

"I know."

Joyce thinks he doesn't, but she lets it slide.

"I'm sure someone would've moved it. Do you want me to find out?"

Hopper nods. "Yes. Please."

Fixations like this come and go. First it was his badge, which Joyce reluctantly returned to him, then it was his grandfather's old pistol that Joyce had, thankfully, stowed away in the bottom of a box when she'd cleared his and El's cabin out. Now, the car. Little bits of memories leaking through, oozing into place one by one. It daren't give Joyce hope, but it makes Hopper happy, and she supposes that's all she can ask for.

His smiles are so rare these days that when they come, she feels the warmth of them on her face, like the sun poking through the clouds on a rainy day. Sometimes she can't help herself and she smiles back. She does this morning, moving to him and placing her hand tentatively on the top of his back. When he doesn't flinch away, she takes it as a good sign, like petting a nervous animal, she resigns herself to letting herself be selfish only when she thinks he won't snap back at her.

"How about we go somewhere for lunch today? Just the two of us. I finish early--" she doesn't, but she's grabbing opportunities when she can "-- we could go get a burger?"

Her thumb presses gently into the crook of neck and she can feel the slow thudding of his heart beneath her skin. It's comforting. He's here, her brain screams, he's here, he's here.

Hopper nods, looking up at her with impossibly wide eyes and they gaze at one another for long enough that her hand starts to go numb.

"I'd like that. Like... like Melvald's."

Something catches at the back of Joyce's throat and she feels tears prickle at her eyes. He'd bring her a burger from Benny's diner (poor Benny, she thinks, his name still emblazoned on the front like a reminder of the blood still etched into Hawkins), leaning on the counter and brandishing it in her face.

"C'mon, Joyce. Don't lie to me, you haven't eaten all damn day."

Joyce shrugged, scribbling notes in the corner of the accounting book and tried to look busy. "It's been really hectic, Hop. You wouldn't believe the amount of customers wanting--"

"You expect me to believe that? I'm not stupid, Joyce." He shoved the burger in its paper under her nose and she had to admit the smell of it made her salivate. But, she’d told herself that she wasn’t giving into his machinations anymore and she certainly wasn’t accepting his charity. He'd been over fixing all manner of utilities in her home the last few weeks and it was driving her nuts.

(She didn’t want to admit she quite liked the sight of him in his vest, all sweaty and dirty, spanner between his teeth looking like an older, overweight River Phoenix.)

" _Joycie_ , eat the damn burger."

She sighed, put her pen down and grabbed it from him. "Okay, fine! But, this isn't a win, alright? This is... I'm just..."

"Hungry?"

Joyce shot him a look as she tore the wrapper off and sank her teeth into it. Mayo, ketchup, no pickles. She looked up at him as she chewed, that smug, self-satisfied smile on his face beneath that bushy moustache, and Joyce wanted to punch him. They were fifteen again and he was tripping her as she walked along the hall and that never really stopped, did it?

They sit opposite one another in a bright red booth in some 50's style diner in the kind of comfortable silence they haven't had for a while. Joyce tries not to watch him too hard because she knows Hopper hates it, even if she can't help herself sometimes. It isn't a longing gaze, which she's sure he might be at least flattered by - it's just to check he's still there.

"You're staring," he mumbles, but the corner of his mouth twitches into a half smile and she lets out a small huff. "I know I'm handsome, Joyce, but we're in public."

The tips of her ears turn red and Joyce raises her eyebrows. "Oh, so that's how it is today, huh? You're in one of _those_ moods?"

Hopper shrugs his shoulders and looks out of the window. "Maybe." 

Joyce can't help but smile at that. Good days are rare, but when they come along she grabs them with both hands. 

He's not put the weight on he had before he left, but there's a paunch that rests against the side of the table that makes him look bigger in the tiny booth. It's comforting, she thinks, at least on the outside he's starting to get back to his old self. His beard has grown back in, like it was years ago, shorter and bristly to touch. He hates letting it grow too much, panics and claws at it with his fingernails until the skin underneath is red raw. His hair too. She's a makeshift barber those days, sitting him on the edge bath and soothing him like she used to soothe Will and Jonathan when they were younger.

The waitress comes to their table with a wide smile and a skip in her step and Joyce feels for her. The weeks she spent during summer break working at a crappy bar in downtown Hawkins - Kenny’s Hideout, she loathes to remember - made her hang up her apron for good. She always tips a little more for servers on their feet all day. It's the least she can do.

"Hey, afternoon! What can I get you guys? You want some coffee?"

Joyce nods her head and looks to Hopper, judging whether he's going to speak today. He tears his gaze away from the window and nods his head. "Sure. Coffee."

"Okay, two cups, coming right up." The young girl beams at them both before hot-footing it to the counter and Joyce rests her elbows on the table, fiddling with the skin at the side of her thumbnail.

"You looked at the menu?" She asks, slipping into her motherly role all too easily. Hopper rolls his eyes and looks at her.

"Yes, _mom_ , I have."

She snorts and gently whacks the back of his hand. "Be careful, or I won't take you for ice cream after." The way the corners of his eyes crinkle at that lets her know she's on the right track.

Joyce looks to the menu, sighing a little at the names like Raiders of the Lost Pork and Empire Strikes Baby Back Ribs. The boys would love this place.

"Mayo. Ketchup. No pickles."

Her eyes drift up for a second and meet his. He's watching her carefully, as if he might tap a little too hard and break the enamel shell she's built around herself. "Hm?"

"Your burger. Mayo, ketchup, no pickles."

The corners of Joyce's mouth lift a little. He remembers. "Of all the things, Hop." But, her hand drifts across the table and finds his, fingers curled around his thumb as she so desperately wants to touch him and for it to be normal. And, for once, it is. He watches as their hands slide together on the sticky diner table and he holds her little fingers like they're a lifeline, like if he doesn't he'll sink into the faded red seats and be lost somewhere far away again.

"I'm sorry, Joyce."

She knows what he's talking about, so doesn't play ignorant. "I know. It's okay."

"It's not though. It's just not right." He jabs firmly at the side of his temple with his other hand and she reaches out with hers, beckoning for him to hold it. Hesitantly, he does, and they sit there holding one another's hands like they're at a seance. 

"We'll fix it, together, okay? But you can't be talking like that. Jim Hopper's no defeatist, hm?"

Hopper rolls his eyes. "Your pep talks need work."

"Still stands. Bad days aside, you've been making real progress. You remember Melvald's, you remember my burger order. No pickles, I mean, who plucks that out of thin air?"

He watches her for a long moment before he shrugs his shoulders. "I just... hate the way the kids look at me. Especially her. El."

It still hurts he doesn't remember his own daughter; hurts her, hurts El most of all. From one room to the other, her night shirt damp with tears and sweat, she pulls the girl to her and tells her it's alright, he just needs time, it'll come back.

But, it's been three months and Hopper doesn't remember a thing.

"Well, she's just sad, Hop. It's not your fault."

"It is though," he says firmly and tries to pull his hands away. Joyce won't let him. "It is, 'cause I'm not her father. I don't even know who she is!" His voice is raising now and Joyce shushes him gently and squeezes his hand. They don't need that today. It's a Good Day.

The waitress comes back to their table with two mugs and a pot of coffee, beaming at them until she sees the way Hopper is trying to pull himself back into the corner and her smile falters. "Everything okay over here?"

"Fine," Joyce snaps without meaning to. Her hands are on Hopper's wrists as he desperately tries to shrink back into the crook between the back of his seat and the wall. "We'll need a moment to decide. Please."

The waitress nods nervously, filling the cups as quickly as possible and making her escape back into the kitchen.

"Jim, stop it," Joyce hisses, low and pointedly. He's stronger than her and could easily pull his arms back, but he doesn't. She keeps her grip and he relents, letting out a grunt and flopping back against his seat like a five year old throwing a tantrum.

He glares out of the window; the pout on his face would be cute if she wasn't so exasperated. "Calm down. It's fine. These things will get better in time, but--"

"You always say in time. It's been three months." His arms are folded over his chest and he glares at her. God, he sounds like El. Her eyes shimmer with something for a moment and she dips her head. "No change. Nothing. I'm just supposed to live like this?

"Like what?" Her voice is quiet as she tries to regain some composure.

"Like... I don't know who I am anymore. I've seen photographs, you've told me everything, but I don't remember, Joyce. Like someone's rubbed out half my life; and it feels, all the time, like something's crawling under my skin. Inside of me. Angry, and hungry, and mean, and I don't wanna be like that."

When Joyce looks up again, his eyes are pleading and it breaks her goddamn heart.

"I know you don't, baby," she says and her hand slides across the table, palm up, for him to take. "But, you need to work with me. Okay? You need to trust me."

Hopper looks at her for what feels like the longest time before he unfurls himself and gently places his hand over hers. "Alright."

"Alright," she says. "Now, what do you want?"

He sniffs, adjusting himself so he can look down at the menu. "I'm not sure I wanna eat something called Take a Leek."

Joyce smirks, the adrenaline pumping through her system starting to wane. "Get a plain cheeseburger." When he looks at her she tilts her head and raises her eyebrows. "You don't think I remember how much you used to complain when anyone put anything but cheese on your burgers? God forbid they tried to add sauce. And, don't get me started on the lettuce. You're not the only one that remembers this stuff, Hop. I mean, how can I not? Since sixth grade you were such a burger snob. Only the classics, right?"

"Don't tell me I'm wrong, Horowitz." He smiles at her for a moment then drops his gaze back to the menu.

Joyce lets out a breath and looks back down. Crisis averted.

"Maybe I'll get the Halloweiner," she says, trying not to laugh.

"Jesus."

"Hey. At least I'm trying something new."

Hopper shakes his head. "You'll take one bite and spit it out. Believe me." When Joyce looks up at him he only shrugs. "Don't look at me like that, I know you. Forty years don't lie."

She pulls a face and gently kicks him under the table. He chuckles. The world turns and Joyce Byers smiles.

Today's a Good Day after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter, the dialogue for Hopper's a little different to how he is in the show because he's dealing with brain damage that affected the emotional part of his brain, meaning he deals with how he feels a lot differently. But, hopefully I got some of show!Hopper shining through.
> 
> Ya can't fix this kind of brain injury and the idea that you should "fix" someone that's different because of mental health issues is bullshit! But, often, it's the first thing that people go to - know that Joyce is gonna adapt and change her stance on that, don't worry! I imagined that she'd want her old Hopper back because this Hopper is difficult to deal with in a different way - but, it's okay, she'll see the light.
> 
> Next chapter will have some fun father/daughter moments! Also some explanations about what's going on with the lights!!!! So, buckle up and I appreciate all the kind words y'all have been commenting!!


	3. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Joyce is stuck between a rock and a hard place. Losing Hopper was as much of a blow to his surrogate daughter as to her; just because she'd known him longer didn't mean that she had any monopoly on grief. Cleaning out his cabin with El was one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do. Standing by his grave holding her hand while they lowered in an empty coffin was second on her list."
> 
> Joyce Byers coming to terms with the lot she's been given, and beginning to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this taking a little bit of time to get up - have had a bit of a hectic week! I hope y'all enjoy it! As always, title taken from Kim Petras' songs 'cause they're real bangin'. Also, I love David Harbour's bod, so please excuse the specific descriptions of him in this chapter - I couldn't help myself.

El watches Hopper and Joyce watches El.

It's become a ritual of sorts. Not that Joyce doesn't watch Hopper, she does, but Hopper remembers Joyce. Hopper knows Joyce. He doesn't know  _ everything _ , but he knows her, he has patches and fleeting memories that pass by him like ships on the water. Poor El is like a ghost, there's traces of her in the way he looks at her sometimes, but other than that, she's nothing but a teenager to him.

And, Hopper's never been the best with kids.

"You can go talk to him," Joyce tells her one morning over breakfast. It's a Saturday morning, Will's asked if they can bike over to the local arcade and Hopper's still asleep. El concentrates on her orange juice a little too hard and Joyce wonders if she's trying to move it. "Honey?" El's gaze flicks up to Joyce's face and she shakes her head.

"He doesn't know me."

Joyce is stuck between a rock and a hard place. Losing Hopper was as much of a blow to his surrogate daughter as to her; just because she'd known him longer didn't mean that she had any monopoly on grief. Cleaning out his cabin with El was one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do. Standing by his grave holding her hand while they lowered in an empty coffin was second on her list.

(And, what about Bob? Joyce lies awake at night wondering if one level of longing, of guilt, of mourning had overtaken the other, and that just started the cycle off all over again.)

"Sweetheart, if you don't talk to him he never will. He's made progress. At the hospital, here." Joyce offers El a small smile, which she returns. "If you keep ignoring him, he's going to get grumpy. You know as well as I do he's as stubborn as a mule."

El nods. "Stubborn."

"So, how about you and Will go to the arcade after lunch? You could talk to Hopper when he's had breakfast and--"

"And what?" The voice makes her jump and she turns a little too quickly with the spatula in her hand and splashes bacon grease up the wall. "Jesus, Hop!" Her exclamation is good natured, but still he flinches, grimacing and rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

His eyes immediately dart to El, sitting at the breakfast table with wide, imploring eyes, waiting for him to greet her with a hand through her hair and a gentle smile. Instead, he watches her fearfully and Joyce isn't sure which of them to run to - so she stays put.

"Hey, so, El has some things she wanted to show you." El's head turns and she frowns at her, unsure of what  _ thing  _ she has to show him, as Hopper nods his head warily.

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhm. She's got pretty much everything from your cabin. Boxes of stuff, isn't that right, El?"

El slowly looks back at Hopper and nods. "Yes. Lots. Clothes and... books, and... things."

Joyce's heart breaks for her. She knows she's nervous, she can see it in the way El almost crumbles in on herself. She didn't mean to put her under pressure, but without a little nudge in the right direction she would've hidden from him for the rest of her life. Not that Joyce blames her. But, she's come to realise that this Hopper, the one they've got now, isn't going to change.

They have to learn to live with him, or she worries that he won't live at all.

"Uh. Sure." He and El share a look for a moment before he stares at Joyce, eyes begging her to help. But, this time, she's leaving him on his own.

El shuffles out as Hopper sits down and it leaves the kitchen in an eerie kind of quiet; the kind Joyce hasn't experienced for a long,  _ long  _ time.

She plates up some burned toast, and eggs, and bacon and puts it down in front of Hopper as he hunches over, staring at the back of the ketchup bottle. "Mm. Thanks."

There's a long, pregnant pause as she goes back to clear the kids' dirty dishes away before he speaks again, his mouth full of food. That's a good sign, at least.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea.

Joyce turns a little and watches him from the corner of her eye. "What isn't?"

"Me and... El."

She sighs. "Why not?"

Hopper shrugs his shoulders, shovelling eggs into his mouth. "Not exactly best dad in the world material."

Because he let his first daughter die, because he's a drunk, because he's an addict. Joyce has heard the story before. Another cycle that she's going to break; pity and self loathing are gone, left behind in Hawkins. She's not got the time for it anymore.

"Yet you spent two years looking after her. A year on your own. Without telling me, which, really, is a feat, given when I found out about you keeping her you couldn't keep your mouth shut about it." She offers a small, crooked smile and he returns it. Like father like daughter. "As if I'm the only woman you know with kids."

"Only woman I know with  _ good  _ kids, Joyce." She can barely understand him as he scoffs his second piece of toast, but his words bring a flickering warmth to her chest. "Never thought I'd try that shit again."

"Well you did. You did, after everything, so count yourself lucky. Not many men get a second chance, and she's a great girl, El, she's a  _ great  _ girl."

"Mhm."

"Don't let her down, Hop."

"I won't."

Joyce turns to look at him now and he looks so determined that she can't help but smile. He won't. She knows it. He won't.

He swallows his mouthful, wincing a little. She's told him not to shove so much in, but he went without for so long in the bunker that she can't blame him.

"What's that smile for?" His brow furrows low over his eyes and anyone else might think him genuinely annoyed. But, Joyce knows him better than that. He pulled that shit in high school and it didn't fly with her then.

"Nothing."

She turns back to her washcloth and the crumbs on the side. Behind her, his chair scrapes back across the floor and socked feet pad across the carpet toward her. Joyce feels the radiating warmth of him on her back; she doesn't need to turn around to know he's standing behind her.

His voice is low and gravelly and something deep inside of her clenches.

"You haven't smiled like that in a long time, Joyce."

She shrugs her shoulders. "Is a woman not allowed to smile, Hop?"

"Didn't say that. But, you don't."

That brings a little frown to her face; he's right, she's not smiled, truly, for a long while. Her smiles have been reserved for their little family, but just to keep everyone placated. They never mean much, just a quick flick of the corners of her mouth to show them she's okay. To lie.

Joyce throws the cloth onto the side and swivels her hips until she's turned, penned in by him. He looks so much healthier now, the yellowing pallor of his skin disappeared a few weeks after they brought him home. His clothes fit snugger and she'd never realised how much she likes it. Bigger, softer, warmer. She smiles and he smiles too; it reaches his eyes, crinkles the wrinkles in the corners and his hand moves to take hers where it rests on the counter behind her. His hands are bigger, softer, warmer than hers and she can't help but curl her fingers around his.

Joyce has always taken notice of him; the way he moves, the way he holds himself, the way his clothes hug him in all the right places. Even in high school, even with Lonnie fucking Byers' tongue against her neck she watched him down the end of the corridor with his blazer tucked over his shoulder, arm resting against the locker above him as he pinned little blonde bombshell Chrissy Carpenter against it with nothing but a stare and a cock of his head.

He could get all the girls he wanted. He still could. He did, but then he stopped.

Joyce told herself it was because at least a small part of his soul had been soothed when he'd brought her boy back to her. She hadn't much noticed until he'd left, then she studied every minute detail of the last two years of their lives. His life, mostly. She'd lived her life and she didn't much want to go through it again.

As she looks up at him, his face shadowed and low, his gaze burning holes through her, Joyce wonders, selfishly, if he stopped because of her.

No, not because of her. _For_ her.

Hopper looks at her, and she looks at him. He starts to lean in toward her, hot breath against her face and Joyce tilts her head up, eyes flickering across his face and he's so close to her and -

"Mom! Have you got any quarters?"

Hopper immediately straightens and Joyce can't see his eyes anymore with how low his brow is. Joyce peers around him to see a flustered looking Will, clearly having opened his mouth before realising what was happening in the kitchen. What  _ almost  _ happened.

"In my purse, sweetie. Don't take too many, alright?"

Her son nods his head vigorously before scarpering back into the living room, cheeks a deep shade of red, and Joyce can't help but chuckle.

As she looks back to Hopper, she notices his cheeks are a similar colour and it takes her by surprise; she can't remember the last time she saw him blush.

*

Hopper sits himself on the couch in the living room, watching the TV blankly, stomach churning as he waits for the sound of soft feet padding on wood and the arrival of his so-called-surrogate-daughter, El. He's tried to remember her, to knit together the fragments of memories that wash around like silt in a tide pool, but he can't. There's his parents, his mother, mostly, Joyce, even Jonathan and Will, but no El.

When he looks at her sometimes - really  _ looks  _ at her - he sees something of his mother behind those big brown eyes and his heart twists uncomfortably. Like he does with Joyce, he has an ineffable need to  _ protect  _ this girl, but, like Joyce, he's very aware she doesn't much need it. Joyce has told him how she fought for them; for him, for everyone. How she nearly killed herself, time and time again, how she sewed up fissures in time and space and reality, how she found her boy (and how he, a fat cop from Indiana, found him too).

The way Joyce looks at him sometimes makes him want to ask if they'd become something more. If, maybe, he'd gathered up this apparent lion's courage and asked her out. His memories waver somewhere around 1980 and he's pretty sure she wouldn't have swapped out drunk a-hole Lonnie Byers for drunk a-hole Jim Hopper, however good a fuck he was.

Not that Joyce is letting him drink, anyhow. "It doesn't mix well with the meds," she says, but he thinks the real reason is that she's scared the drink might do something worse to his head. Turn him into a REAL a-hole, the kind that punches through walls and tears up the carpets, that blames her for every damned thing wrong with him and, damn, even blind drunk he wouldn't do that to her.

He's not Lonnie Byers. Even fucked up. Even  _ wrong _ . He respects her too damn much for that.

So, maybe it's not that, Hopper muses to himself in the fog he calls his brain, and lifts his apple juice with a shaky hand. Maybe she likes to pretend the bottle of red she keeps at the back of the cupboard is her own brand of sobriety. Maybe she wants to make sure he doesn't slip into the kind of self destructive behaviour she witnessed after Sara.

Hopper snorts to himself and shakes his head, taking a sip of his juice and pretending it's scotch. Fucking Freud. He's been spending too much time 'round Owens.

"Hop?"

A small voice from behind him breaks him from his reverie of self discovery and he looks over to see El standing there in an oversized shirt (is that his? Damn kid, raiding his closet again. Tugging at his heartstrings.) fiddling with the sleeves. "Can we... talk?"

Hopper nods gruffly. "Sure." Guess I got no choice, he wants to say, but El looks sort of halfway happy for a moment and he doesn't want to knock the poor girl while she's down. "You like that shirt, huh?" He tilts his head toward her and she looks down at it, as if she's only just noticed she's wearing it.

"Oh. Yes." El makes a move to start taking it off and Hop quickly holds a hand up.

"No, no, you keep it. Looks better on you than it does me. Dunno if flannel suits me much." He snorts, the corner of his lips curling upwards and El mirrors him, offering up a little smile that does something strange to the beating of his heart.

His brain is screaming: run. It does that a lot, ever since he came back. The adrenaline pumps through his system and his eyes bug out. Like the guys that came back from Vietnam, he says to Owens when he's let himself drop his guard, but his brain don't work the same and instead he can't tell up from down and Joyce is holding him as he cries naked in the shower 'cause the bar of soap slipped out his hand and he thinks he's in a goddamn Russian prison again.

Instead, he looks at her and thinks, holy shit, if this is the girl I raised then I mustn't have done such a bad job after all.

El fiddles with something at her wrist and Hopper's brow furrows. He's not noticed it before - perhaps he's not been looking close enough, perhaps she's hidden it from him, but there, beneath the baggy sleeve of his shirt is...

"What's that?"

El flinches a little, as if he's broken her from her thoughts and she looks at him with those big, brown eyes again, and she's frightened, and he doesn't want that. "You... said that your Sara... she... uh..." She squirms a little, thinking he might snap at her, but he doesn't. Hopper's eyes go wide for a moment, then he starts to smile.

"I gave you that?"

El nods. "Yes. You told me, about the black hole, and you gave me it."

"Huh. Who'd have thought?"

She looks confused. "Do you want it back?"

He's thrown for a second; of  _ course  _ he does, it's one of the few things he has of his little girl, he wants to keep it with him until the day he dies and even then, not let anyone pry it from his cold body, but Hopper looks at her, this girl, this force of nature, this  _ block  _ in his memory and he shakes his head.

"You keep it. Looks better on you anyways." He takes a moment as relief floods El's face and he likes that. He likes that a lot. "Joyce told me what we did; my grandfather's cabin, keeping you there, away from your friends. She said you got yourself a boyfriend."

El nods her head, puffing her chest a little. "Yes. Mike. You like Mike now."

"I'm not sure about that."

"Yes! You do! You said it, at the Mall, you said--" She suddenly stops and Hopper frowns.

"Said what?"

El opens and closes her mouth for a moment and a sorrow he's not seen comes across her face. "You said..." And, like that, she gets to her feet and comes to him, kneeling up on the couch cushions beside him and puts her arms around his neck. For a moment he freezes, unsure of what to do, but muscle memory takes over and he slowly pulls her in for a hug that makes her suck in a sharp breath and let out months and _months_ of sorrow.

"Hey. Hey, kid, it's okay." But, it's not, and he can feel prickles of it in the back of his throat and the corners of his eyes. "It's okay." His hand finds the back of her head and he strokes fingers through her hair as she cries. "It's okay. It's alright." Joyce watches with a pair of his pants in her hands from the kitchen doorway and brushes away a tear of her own. "I'm here. Not going anywhere, hm? Don't think any of you'd let me leave the house by myself anymore." It doesn't make her stop, and Hopper just swallows, pressing his mouth to the side of her head and placing a small kiss against her head. "I'm not going anywhere."

A small voice says "Dad" in his ear and Hopper's heart feels like it's about to burst. He holds El and El holds him and though he doesn't remember the cabin, or the Mall, or any of it, he knows her. The warmth of her, and the strength of her, and the way her small hand tucks into his and it's  _ something _ .

*

Will gave up on El coming to the arcade hours ago and, instead, went on his own. Joyce's heart skipped a beat as he said goodbye, but she knows deep down this isn't Hawkins and the real, human threats out there are nothing compared to Demogorgon's and Mind Flayers, so she only worries a little bit these days.

They both leave El, who's fallen asleep on Hopper, and Hopper, who's fallen asleep with his mouth open and looks positively content. Joyce covers them with a blanket and El stirs a little, making a small noise, and Joyce's heart swells about fifty sizes. She might set up a chalkboard in the kitchen: All the Times Joyce Horowitz Was Right. Another check to her. Well done Horowitz, another one to you.

She goes to put clothes away, putting Will's and El's on their beds for them to tidy away themselves. She moves to Hopper's room - well, Jonathan's room, but he's not coming back until Christmas, he says, and she'd rather give up her room to her eldest than have Hopper sleep on the couch. Unlike the kids, she puts his clothes away herself, spending the time running her thumb and forefinger over his jeans, his shirts, his vests and pyjamas, feeling the soft fabric and breathing in the smell of him that still clings to the clothing even after a good wash.

She's lost in her own thoughts when there's a low grumbling cough behind her and she pulls a pair of his boxers away from her face and tosses them across the room.

"I wasn't--"

Hopper's smirking at her, the ass. "You weren't what? Sniffing my undies?"

Joyce purses her lips, desperately trying to think of a comeback and draws a blank. "No, I wasn't.

He looks at her with crinkles at the corners of his eyes again and Joyce thinks, I love you, you idiot, I damn well love you.

"I, uh, just wanted to say thanks for... getting the kid to talk to me. Worked out alright in the end, I guess." He shuffles on his feet and Joyce instinctively reaches out to take his hand. When Hopper doesn't pull away, she makes a note: a Good Day. "Joyce, I... owe you everything."

Her eyes widen a little and she quickly shakes her head. "I'm just paying you back for what you did for Will," she starts, and his shoulders sag, and oh no, that sounds like it's no more than a quick exchange of  _ thanks for that _ 's. "No. No, I mean... it's so good to have you back, and..."

"Joyce," Hopper says quietly, cutting her off, and she blinks.

"Yeah?"

"Before everything. Before I... went. Did we-- did we ever--" He gestures between the two of them with his free hand and it takes Joyce a few long, excruciating seconds to glean his meaning. Her eyebrows shoot up and Hopper looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole.

"Oh! Oh, no! No! Well--"

"Well?"

"Well, yeah, I mean... we had a date."

"A date?"

"Yeah. You... asked me out on a date. But, not a date. As friends. But, that's what you said, but you didn't mean it, and I didn't realise, so I went to see Scott Clarke, you know, the kids' science teacher?"

Hopper looks bewildered and nods his head, so Joyce continues.

"Well, I went to see him instead, and stood you up. But, I didn't  _ know  _ I was standing you up. I mean, I  _ did _ , because I knew you were there, but I didn't know it was a date. Do you see?"

"Uh..."

"So, when we were in the Russian base, I said, well, we deserved to celebrate, so I asked you out on a date. To Enzo's."

"Enzo's. Really?"

"Well, it's where  _ you  _ asked  _ me _ out, so..."

" _ Really _ ?" He pulls a face, clearly thinking back to the tiny portions and overpriced wine. "Enzo's, really?"

"Yeah," Joyce says and huffs out a laugh. "You bought a new shirt. You wore a linen suit jacket. Jeans. You really went all out."

"Huh," he repeats, as if none of this sounds particularly plausible and Joyce must be making the whole thing up. "So... we were going out on a date."

"Yeah."

"Do you... still want to go on that date?"

And,  _ that  _ takes Joyce by surprise. She lets out a little noise, half "Did I hear you right?" and half "God yes", and stares at him. "Are... you sure?"

"Yes. Why? Do you not want--"

"No. No, I didn't say that."

"Well, you don't  _ sound  _ like you want to--"

"No, Hop, no, I didn't say that."

"Okay. You didn't say it, but you sounded like--"

"I want to go out on a date with you. Okay?"

There's that smirk again and Joyce squeezes his hand a little too hard. He laughs and twists it until his fingers are interlaced with hers and he takes one step into her personal space. Just enough to get the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. It's the Hopper she remembers mixed with the Hopper she's grown to love again.

"Okay. Okay." His voice is deep and rumbles in his chest as his stomach presses softly against her. "You could've been a little more romantic when you asked, though, Horowitz."

"Fuck you, Hopper," she says, her finger gently digging into the softness of his chest. "Yours wasn't exactly any better."

"I doubt that."

"You  _ doubt  _ it, huh?" she laughs, feeling her cheeks aching delightfully. "You, Mr. Suave, coming along sweeping me off my feet, you think that's how it went down?"

Hopper puffs his chest out and she nearly falls back. "I could get any woman in Hawkins I wanted."

"Only the once."

"Only the once, but I got them."

Joyce scrunches up her nose. "I think that's pretty misogynistic, Hop."

"Is it?"

"Yeah, it kinda is, makes us sound like prizes."

Hopper ruminates for a second, chewing his cheek before saying. "So, if I said you were the best prize of all, you wouldn't like that?"

Joyce's eyebrows shoot up for a moment, then she tries to stifle a smile. "I'm not a trophy--"

"I didn't say you were."

She watches him for a moment, stood so close to her she can feel the warmth radiating off of him, feel the rise and fall of his chest, feel the thrumming of his heartbeat beneath his skin. He watches her back, the kind of curiosity lost beneath the shadow of his brow and Joyce swallows.

And, tilts her head back just a little as Hopper leans down and presses his lips to hers.

He smells just like his boxers and Joyce isn't sure  _ that  _ should be the first thought going through her head. Her hands find the sides of his jaw, scratching at the stubble there and God, his lips are soft. Like high school. Fuck.

Hopper pulls back, blinking, a little dumbfounded, looking at her like a dopey dog and Joyce can't help but reply in kind and bark out a laugh. He starts to smile, calming, realising that she's not about to yell at him for taking liberties. Not that she yells anymore. She doesn't have the stomach for it.

"That was okay, right?" he asks and Joyce wants to wrap him up in her arms and never let him go.

Instead, she just nods her head "That was okay. Yeah."

*

They have their date after all, in a little Chinese place in town. The waiter gives Hopper a stern glance over his notepad as he pronounces  _ everything  _ wrong and keeps nudging her foot underneath the table to get her to stop. The stifling giggles do nothing for his composure, but everything for his confidence and he wildly - and  _ loudly  _ \- exclaims he'll have the  _ Low Mine _ to which Joyce dissolves into giggles and the waiter tells them he'll  _ come back later _ .

It's comfortable, easy, slipping into old ways but with the hazy aura of the new life they've had to get used to.

"You look good, Jim," Joyce tells him after they've had a little too much wine and a blush creeps over his cheeks as he smiles sloppily.

"So do you, Joyce."

They walk home hand in hand, Joyce holding her heels with Hopper's jacket over her shoulders. It's not the same white linen, but it's a light brown and matches the wisps of his hair that ripple in the wind.

Maybe he could wear it to Jonathan's graduation. Maybe she shouldn't have drunk so much wine. She's getting sappy.

They end up sitting on the bench on the porch for  _ hours _ , sometimes in silence, sometimes kissing, sometimes her telling him the little things he's missed. The little things he wants to remember.

"I love you," she says, as he watches the sunrise and she watches him.

"As I am?" Hopper asks, tearing his eyes away from the broad strokes of orange, and red, flaming across the morning sky. His eyes are wide and oh so blue, and God she could drown in them right now.

Instead, she just nods. Just nods. "As you are," she says. "Just as you are."

Hopper nods and lifts her hand to place a delicate kiss on her knuckles. "I love you too. Just as you are."

Together, they watch the sunrise and slowly Hopper snakes his fingers between hers and squeezes her hand.

Just as he is, Joyce thinks. And, just as she is, too.

Perfectly, unequivocally, destructively damaged. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading y'all, I really appreciate the lovely comments! Watch this space for more Jopper fics 'cause they're damn addictive!! Myself and Helena are going to be participating in the Jopper Big Bang, so keep an eye out for that too!!

**Author's Note:**

> I (Jordan) had an idea for a short fic and churned out the first chapter in a couple of hours - it was a tonne of fun to write and I look forward to getting more of this story finished up. I did some research into brain injuries and I'll continue to be researching as Hopper actually comes into the story in the next two chapters.
> 
> But, if y'all have any thoughts, comments, or concerns, feel free to let me know! This fic may even end up being longer than three chapters, but we'll have to see. I wanted to write something a bit more gritty, with less of a happy ending, as happens irl - no fix-its or magic solutions. I guess that's also my morose sensibilities!! Hope you enjoy and see you real soon!


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